What Came Before
by Depraved Sociopath
Summary: Miscellaneous "prequels" for characters from the new game "Katawa Shoujo" by Four Leaf Studios.
1. Rin's Portrait

It's too bright. The setting sun shines through the window of the art room and I blink several times, shake my head to clear it.

"Rin, what do you think clouds are?" Emi's mixing the wrong color. Clouds? Interesting thought. Should remember that.

"Dunno." No, it needs more blue. "Blue."

"I mean," too much blue, now, "the science teachers say it's water, but that seems so... boring." Emi giggles a little and continues stirring.

"Mmm. White, a dash." Clouds are white.

The brush between my toes trembles slightly, and I lower my leg. The canvas is taking shape, though slowly, too slowly. My hips ache. "Do your hips hurt?"

Emi cocks her head quizzically. "Huh? No, I feel fine."

"Clouds. Maybe the sky is thinking?" I lift my foot, dip the brush in the blue paint and draw it across my painting. "When you run."

My companion smiles, confused. "When I run?"

"Your hips." Too much blue. Too late. I lower my foot again and regard the new brushstroke.

"Oh!" From the top of the table next to me she swings her prosthetic legs back and forth, like a child. "I suppose my hips hurt sometimes, but it doesn't bother me. Just means my muscles are getting a good workout!" Her cheery grin shines behind me.

"This canvas doesn't like my picture." The colors aren't melding the way they're supposed to, and the paint seems to be running more than usual. My newest streak of blue is glaring at me angrily. "I should change it." I grasp a different brush and start working.

Emi doesn't even react. She knows it's important for the canvas to like its new design. "So the other day, right? I was running at lunch when a teacher came outside. Apparently he'd been looking for me, and..."

The familiar buzz of Emi's voice fades into the background as I continue to work. I am throwing paint at the canvas on the floor, almost without abandon. There is a hint of what it wants to be, a mere whisper of intent, and I latch onto it. It seems to like... "Landscapes."

"Hm?" Again Emi cocks her head to one side.

"Would you mix some brown, please? Like the bark of an old, sad tree. And... no, no brown. Yes, no, yes, brown. But like a bar of chocolate, only happier, like Christmas morning and dinnertime all rolled into one. And... yellow. Hair." My first attempt must be folded into the new landscape. It can't look out of place. A seascape, blue for the ocean, gray for a lighthouse, brown and gold for sand.

A new brush, for texture. My hips no longer hurt.

Emi happily mixes paint in small bowls. "Anyway, my make-up assignment is due tomorrow, and-"

"Make-up?" I turn to look at her, slowly. She has paused mid-stroke; the paint in her bowl is mostly brown, a streak of white swirling around and down into the middle, like a whirlpool. "You are in cosmetology?"

Time freezes for a moment, then Emi giggles and resumes stirring. The correct shade of brown. "I'm glad you think I'm pretty, but no, this is for Japanese."

I shake my head once more, then turn back to the floor. "A geisha, then." White make-up, rosy cheeks. Rosy? "Mix some red. Lighter than blood, and darker, too." A sunset would help this picture. It is getting darker.

Emi notices the sun setting, as well. "Okay, but I need to go after this, there's not much time before bed and I wanted to run a few miles." Quickly she takes up another mixing bowl.

I have depleted the blue, seawater blue. Almost green, really. "Can you make some more blue before you go?" No response. I stop regarding the painting, look up. Emi is gone, the sun has set, and it is deathly quiet. "Night is very fast these days," I mumble to no-one in particular.

There is still much to be done, but my vision is fading. And the work must be completed tonight, to dry for tomorrow, to allow for touch-up.

A soft squirting sound echoes through the classroom as I squeeze a paint bottle with my feet. A satisfying sound, paint hitting a mixing bowl. Another color, green like emeralds, to complete my color and again I apply myself to the canvas on the floor.

Long, smooth strokes of the brush, held between toes caked with paint. Sweeping brushstrokes form, refine the sea, calm and serene – a scene that belies the danger for ships drawing too closely to the rocks jutting up out of the water. The lighthouse sits on a rocky outcropping, silently watching, waiting, for the sun to set and its duty to begin. More green, there must be grass around the base of the lighthouse. No, the sea would not move like that, and there is too much negative space... a rock, yes, now the sea is moving correctly. The sun... the sun is too low. Too high? Yes, too low. More shadows. No, the canvas does not like that rock there. Must make it bigger. Add more shadow. The sandy beach has... footsteps, yes! Now the scene makes sense! But the sky is far too empty... Reds and yellows sweep from side to side, the sun lighting up the sky brilliantly. Clouds, wispy and far-off, drift toward the horizon. I can smell the salty air. My canvas is happy, and so am I.

Aching hips at rest, I shake my hair out of my eyes. It is time for bed. But first, I must get this to a drying rack. "Rin?" comes a voice from behind me. I turn to see Emi in the doorway, sweaty and wearing her track clothes. "Did you lose track of time, too?"

"No, I know where it is."

She giggles and shakes her head. "It's a figure of speech. Anyway..." she took a few steps into the room and saw my work. "Oh! Rin, it's wonderful!" Her eyes lit up. "It's changed so much since I was here earlier!"

I wipe my paint-covered feet on the towel sitting next to me, then stand. "Will you help me clean up?"

A curt nod and a large smile. "Sure!"

Emi and I stand before the drying rack, regarding my painting one last time before bed. It is late, and the cleanup took longer than I wanted, but it is done.

Now Emi is quiet, now I have thoughts drifting in and out of my head – wispy, intangible things. Whose feet made those prints in the sand? Is the lighthouse lonely all the way up there? Where do clouds go when they disappear? Do Emi's hips hurt as badly as mine do?

"Emi?"

"Yeah, Rin?"

"Thanks for helping me all the time. Painting is easier when you have arms." I don't know where those words came from, and now they're gone again. But Emi is looking at me with tears in her eyes for some reason.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

I nod curtly, and suddenly a smile plays across my face. "Everyone should have a friend like you."

A palpable silence falls over the scene. I finally turn and start toward the door. "I need to take a bath."

"Wait for me!" Traipsing after me Emi shuts off the lights and closes the door.

Faint moonlight shines in through the wall of windows, and a shaft of light plays across the surface of my painting. The sea churns indefinitely, the grass sways gently in the wind, and the clouds – whatever they are – drift off into the mysteries of the sky.


	2. Hanako's Gambit

Burns like mine never really heal. Yes, the majority of the pain fades, but they always hurt, like they're trying to remind you of things best left forgotten. And, of course, there are the emotional pains that come from looking like I do.

"Would you please move my pawn to D4?" I pick up Lilly's white piece and move it, already scanning the board for my next move. She usually beats me, but that doesn't keep me from trying.

I'm... not what you'd call an outgoing person, and Lilly is my only friend. She and I spend time together in this room, where we have tea, talk, and play the occasional game of chess. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before I met Lilly, but those memories aren't-

There it goes again. I close my good eye and take a deep breath, trying to fight off the memories.

I can still smell the smoke, and I can hear my father­-

Quickly, without thinking, I take her pawn with my black knight. "Knight takes D4," I all but whisper.

It's enough for Lilly, though, and she frowns slightly. "Hanako, are you all right?"

"Y-Yes," I stammer lamely, looking at the board. ...Ah, I see, that's an illegal move. Moving my knight puts my king in check. "Sorry," I say, replacing her knight and moving my piece back across the board. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

Another frown, and Lilly hesitates a moment. "Are you sure nothing's wrong? It isn't like you to make such a mistake."

Instinctively I shake my head, then add, "No, I'm fine." Lilly's glassy eyes fail to pick up my head and my hands shaking. They also fail to pick up my disfigurement, and the shudder that passes through my body. The game is forgotten momentarily as, unbidden, memories bubble up from the back of my mind.

* * *

_Heat. Then, nothing._

_What I remember first is pain. The smell of burn salve, the sterile white ceiling of a hospital. Then the pain again. Oh, the pain! I had never imagined a human could feel such agony!_

_I was disoriented, my eyes wouldn't focus. I blacked out shortly._

* * *

_Blurred shapes and echoes brought more pain. It felt like I was still in the fire._

_A nurse was changing my IV, and suddenly everything came sharply into focus. My nerves were screaming at me; even the dim light in my hospital room was enough to etch every detail into my mind forever. I saw the nurse - a homely woman, no older than thirty - as she flinched, dropping my precious pain medication onto the floor. There was a single window on my left, dark. The sheets smelled rancid yet clean, and I could feel the rough texture on the back of my neck. There was no television, no visitors, no flowers or even plastic plants. My mouth shot open as I convulsed, once, then arched my back sharply, trying to get away from whatever was hurting me so. It didn't help. A silent scream contorted my face. Somewhere in the hallway another person noticed my state, called for help. Even through my bandages I felt the air around me move like sandpaper on my charred flesh; I smelled the musky odors of more nurses and a doctor as they rushed to my side in a vain attempt to hold me down. From the corner of my eye, through the tears, I saw a needle puncture a bit of plastic tubing. Precious moments - moments that felt like years - passed before the darkness enshrouded me once more._

* * *

_Nurses would change my bandages, and I would cry from the pain. Time passed, but I don't know how much._

_When the pain subsided enough for me to hold a conversation, the news came - my father was dead. Numbness greeted the revelation first. Then, sadness._

_Tears ran down my face, and despite the pain that shot through my body I curled into a ball and wept. The pain was probably the only thing that let me know that what I was feeling, what I had just heard, was real. I latched onto that feeling and cried, and cried, and cried. My father was dead._

_My father was dead._

* * *

_In that bed, with the bandages that smelled like death, I had time to think, to ask questions. Why did this happen? Why did I survive while my father didn't? Was I going to be able to live a normal life? Answers were in short supply, of course, and when it hurt my heart to think anymore I would escape._

_I read. My books were my outlet, they were the way I dealt with the trauma. I escaped into works by contemporary Japanese authors like Kazuo Ishiguro, and wove my way through international bestsellers by Jhumpa Lahiri and Khaled Hosseini. Classics – Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Homer, Akinari Ueda - fell by the wayside as my voracious appetite for books demanded satiation. Anything at the hospital, anything I could get my hands on, just to escape the horror my life had become._

_Books, though, they couldn't answer my questions._

_The doctors thought it would be a good idea for me to see a therapist - to cope with losing my father and my disfigurement, they said. Though of course they never said 'disfigurement,' they always said 'accident.' But I still had one un-bandaged eye. I could see myself in the mirror._

_I – at first – reacted normally enough. I was hurting, and I did appreciate the company, though I was ashamed for looking so hideous and for surviving where my father did not. She insisted that I was not at fault, and that I couldn't have prevented anything. But life is never that simple. I blamed myself for Father's death._

_Gradually, as my wounds healed, so did my heart – partially. I left the hospital, some time later, still bandaged and in a wheelchair, still missing my father but not totally convinced I had killed him._

_Middle school... I learned to hate in middle school. With passion and dedication I hated every one of my classmates._

_I refuse to remember the nicknames._

_I can't help but remember the laughter._

* * *

"Hanako?" probes Lilly once more, shaking me out of my reverie.

I feel blood rush to my cheek. "Sorry," I mutter, taking another look at the board in front of me. Even so early in the game I can tell I am in trouble. No matter. "Pawn to D5," I say quietly, making the move on the board.

The rest of the game is silent, and eventually - much to my surprise - I manage to win. "Rook to A1, checkmate." I smile, though Lilly can't see it, and brush a bit of hair out of my good eye. "Good game."

"It was, wasn't it?" My friend's long, delicate hand covers her mouth as she laughs lightly. "I must admit, I thought you were lost there toward the beginning."

My hands move to reset the board. "So did I."

Before I can say anything else the door opens and a brown-haired young man pops his head inside. "Miss Class Rep?" he calls tentatively, with the hesitance born of being blind.

"Yes, Keisuke?" She turns her head toward the sound, and the young man does the same.

"Ah, um," he stammers for a second, his face turning red. "The Class President wants to see you."

As quickly as he came he is gone, and Lilly shakes her head slightly. "Why is that boy always in such a hurry?" Turning back to me she sighs. "I suppose I had better go. You know how Hakamichi gets." Her cane is in her hand momentarily, and she stands, looking regal. Her golden hair glints in the sunlight, her soft features carrying a grace I wish I could emulate.

Thinking of the young man's blush, I can't help but giggle. "What's so funny?" asks the blonde girl, smirking slightly.

"Oh, it's just..." I start gathering up the chess men. "I think that boy might have a crush on you."

Lilly's pout makes me laugh again. "Yes, I've been suspecting that for a while myself. And while he is a nice young man, I just don't feel the same way about him." The pout fades to a grimace. "But I am afraid I must go. Will I see you after school?"

"Yes." I smile. She can't see it, but it feels right.

As my friend lets herself out and closes the door, my chest tightens. I can't... I have to go to class, now. It is time.

Sometimes I get like this. Sometimes, other people make me freeze up. My chest aches and my stomach churns; a fear so real and powerful overtakes me that I can't function any longer.

I have not had an easy life. My father is dead – still, sometimes I wonder if I could have prevented it somehow – my body is ghastly and my mind is not my own. In school, in life, people have let me down. I have grown to fear them. My problem is more than simple distrust, or even hatred; I have been conditioned to fear people. I have been ridiculed and ostracized, treated like fine china and a carnival attraction. Through all of this my body has learned. It reacts without my consent, completely shutting down, trying to protect me from the pain I have suffered. I am, simply put, incapacitated by other people.

Two hands tremble – one scarred, one not – as I slide the chess board back onto its shelf. I take a deep breath, steady myself as best I can.

The library beckons.

Down the quiet halls, passing by classrooms with other students, learning, living with their disabilities. Some would say that my disability is not as great as theirs. I don't know that I disagree.

Sliding the door open gently, the dry, paper- and glue-scented air of my sanctuary rushes over me. Oh, how I love to read! More than entertainment, it serves as an escape. Getting away from the people who would ridicule me for not looking "normal," those who mean well but can't help but stare, and the pain of a world without my father – it is for these reasons I return to books time and time again. Reading eases anxiety. The right book can put me to sleep or keep me up all night. Beautiful, flowing prose can sweep me up into the highest peaks of the Himalayan mountains, and the right words can make me feel like _I_ am the one sailing the ocean, wind whipping at my hair and salty spray misting my face. I have met athletes and adventurers, beggars and murderers. I have traveled far and wide, and learned of peoples long extinct. Me, the Girl With No Face!

I take my spot, isolated by walls of books, who do not judge or ridicule, who ask nothing of me but companionship. I settle into the chair and peel back the cover.

Time passes.

My face aches, and I absently caress my charred flesh.

I wonder if I would have been pretty...


	3. Shizune's Playmate

In Japan, a young girl is crying. She crouches, clutching her knees to her chest, and sobs silently. Her name is Shizune Hakamichi, and this is her first day of preschool.

She has hidden herself between two small bushes against the fence that surrounds the school's playground. The other students don't seem to miss her, and the teachers don't realize that anything is wrong, either. So she continues to cry, unnoticed.

The girl is young, yet, so she does not know why she is crying. She couldn't tell you, if you were to ask, that she is lonely. She also doesn't know that the other children in her class aren't avoiding her out of malice; they are scared of her, because she is different. It is unknown to her that, many years in the future, one of her classmates will choose to become a nurse for deaf children – simply because the woman feels bad about what will happen today. And that knowledge wouldn't help her, anyway. Shizune is just a sad, scared child.

The school at which Shizune has been enrolled is touted as a school for disabled children. While this is true, budget problems have recently surfaced, problems that are being hidden from parents and students. Administration is changing quietly, behind the scenes, and many staff members have been laid off. These changes will eventually become public, and the school will close down, but that is in the future. For now, Shizune is stuck in a class where no one speaks sign language but the teacher.

In the defense of Shizune's parents, they do not know these things. They have done research and selected the "best fit" for Shizune. They toured the facilities, and saw none of the problems that would later emerge. They asked parents of enrolled students, who all recommended the school without reservation. And earlier that morning, when Shizune's mother dropped her little girl off, she had smiled at the organization on display. A desperate façade put together to hide a financial nightmare.

Shizune is still crying. The sound of sobbing fails to register in her own ears, defective as they are. Neither does she notice a young boy approach. He walks slowly, carrying a small soccer ball. He crouches and calls out to the crying girl. There is no response.

Shizune feels the bushes rustle around her and lifts her head to see another child crawling towards her. He stops, noticing her movement. He speaks - a useless gesture in this situation, but he does not know that. Blue hair swings back and forth as the girl shakes her head. She sniffles as snot runs from her nose. Again the boy opens his mouth and speaks.

From somewhere in her body another round of sobs rises up, overwhelms her. Her arms draw tightly around her knees and she pushes her face into her legs. Shizune thinks, 'Go away!' But of course the boy cannot hear her thoughts. He crawls closer, tugs on her yellow poncho. The girl lifts her head and tries to force words – what she thinks are words – past her inexperienced lips. She cannot hear the sounds coming out of her own mouth, and the boy flinches back. But he does not turn and flee.

Tapping into some deep well of strength and insight, something incomprehensible even to himself, the boy smiles. He speaks once more, then holds up his hands. From behind him he retrieves the soccer ball, and shows it to his new friend. Another large smile, more words, and he rolls it toward her. It bumps into her leg.

Shizune sniffles once more, but the tears have stopped momentarily. Hesitantly, she kicks the ball back toward the boy, who gently rolls it back to her. A small smile appears on Shizune's red, tear-streaked face. Again she kicks it back to her companion. Again he returns it.

Several volleys back and forth pass before the boy laughs and waves his arm for Shizune to follow. She does so, wiping her nose on her sleeve once more for good measure. Out in the daylight, the two children spread apart and begin to play.

Back and forth, the children kick the ball. Black and white hexagons blur together as it rolls one way, then the other. Suddenly, the boy greets his playmate. She cannot hear him state, "My name's Yukito." Her smile slips slightly. The return kick is more hesitant, this time. He moves his mouth again, and Shizune's grin is completely gone. Tense moments pass. Suddenly Yukito seems to get another idea. "Yu-ki-to!" he screams. Heads turn, eyes focus, and Shizune's lower lip begins to tremble.

Desperately, she starts to sign. 'I can't hear.' No response except for a confused look. She tries again. 'I can't hear.' Nothing. Tears well up in her eyes. 'I can't hear! My name is Shizune! I can't hear!' The boy is moving his mouth again. 'My name is Shizune! Want to be friends?' Other children are approaching now, following a teacher. The look on the woman's face is mistaken for anger, and Shizune flees back into her bushes. The tears come once more.

That night, Shizune will talk with her mother about what happened. She will cry, and her mother will stroke her hair, trying to comfort her daughter. Her father will have a 'talk' with her, in her room, about how sometimes people are different, and how that doesn't mean they are worse or better than anyone else. He will try to explain to her that there are some people who have to work harder to make people realize they're no different. It is not fair, he posits, but it is true. The little girl will nod her head, not fully understanding, but that conversation will stay with her for the rest of her life. And tomorrow Shizune will not return to that preschool, though no formal complaint will be made.

Now, though, sticks and branches poke at her tender young skin as she cries, huddled in the dark.

* * *

In Japan, a young girl is scowling. She stands, hands on her hips, and sends hate at the boy standing in front of her. Her name is Shizune Hakamichi, and this is her first day of second grade.

Her parents learned from the last debacle, and have sent her to another school, specifically for deaf children. Today, the children are supposed to get to know each other by working in groups on assignments. She has been paired with a girl named Reiko and a boy named Densuke, neither of whom are interested in doing any work.

'Will you stop messing around? We've got to finish this!' she signs angrily.

Densuke shakes his head and shoots back, 'No one else is working! Look!' He gestures to the other students in the class, only group of whom are actually working.

Shizune pounds a hand on her desk. Only the teacher turns at the sound. 'I'm not going to fail because you're lazy!' Her words illuminate a change taking place in her, one that will define her personality for the rest of her life. She does not fully understand why, but failing scares her more than anything in the world.

The boy, however, does not know this. No one does. He signs back, 'You're mean. I don't want to talk to you anymore.'

As he turns to talk with Reiko some more, tears of frustration well up in Shizune's eyes. But she lets it go, forces them back. She takes the worksheet and begins filling it out by herself.

Several minutes pass as the girl fills out her group's form. Reiko sends nervous, ashamed glances toward Shizune several times, but they go unnoticed. Around them, the rest of the class has made their introductions and, at gentle prodding from the teacher, begun to work. Except Shizune's group. The teacher approaches the children and frowns.

'Shizune,' she signs after getting the girl's attention, 'why are you the only one working?'

'They don't want to.'

Shizune's answer makes the teacher frown, then turn to her partners and scold them. She feels justified, and smiles. Densuke's eyes begin to water, and he starts crying. Shizune smiles some more. It feels good to be right.

* * *

In Japan, a young girl is ashamed. She sits at her dining room table with her father standing over her, scowling. He is signing furiously. 'You are bullying other students? Shizune, I thought I taught you better than that!' She attempts to reply, but her father cuts her off. 'No! Your teacher called me today. I know everything!'

'But Father,' she manages to sign before he turns his back.

A full minute passes before the man turns back. 'Shizune. Why are you doing this?'

'They are mean to me! They call me names and talk behind my back!'

'I don't care, that doesn't excuse your behavior.' His eyes soften. 'But why didn't you tell me?'

The girl lowers her eyes. 'I don't know.'

Realizing where he is once more, the man's gaze hardens. 'Shizune,' he signs, waiting for her to look at him. She does not. He lifts her chin, gently but firmly, to look into her eyes. He begins signing again. 'Shizune. You are going to be punished for this.'

'I know.'

'Your behavior is not appropriate.'

'I know.'

'You have to stop this immediately.'

'I will.'

They stare at each other for a heartbeat, then her father sits down. 'Shizune. You are a very smart, very strong girl. You can do anything you want in this world, I have no doubt. But if you let people get under your skin you'll never succeed.' He puts a hand on his daughter's shoulder. 'Ignore them.'

'I try, but...' She shrugs and drops her hand, dejected.

'Try harder.'

'But Father, I don't want people to hate me!' She feels her lower lip tremble, but refuses to cry.

A strong hand ruffles Shizune's hair gently. 'No one does. But you can't help that.' He sighs, inaudible to his little girl. 'You're a fourth grader now, Shizune. It's important to fit in, but if other people dislike you, you just have to ignore them. I know it's hard,' he smiles reassuringly, 'but you have to try. Try to fit in without making other people angry, but know when you can't help it.'

'But, I'm already at a disadvantage because I'm deaf-'

'No!' The man has a scowl on his face. 'That is not true. You're stronger because you are deaf, Shizune, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.' He sighs again, and scratches his head. 'This has nothing to do with being deaf. It's the way the world works. Everyone has to do it.'

Shizune sits silently for a moment, then signs. 'Did you have to?'

A small smile appears on her father's face. 'Yes, I have had to ignore some mean people in my lifetime.'

'Like Mom?'

A loud laugh escapes his lips. 'Yes, your mother can be very mean. But don't tell her I said that.'

* * *

In Japan, a young girl is torn. Shizune Hakamichi sits on the floor of her cramped dorm room with her only friend, Shiina Mikado – or 'Misha,' as she prefers to be called. The night is cool, and Shizune is lonely. Even with Misha there to keep her company, the girl can not shake the feeling that she's alone.

It is the first day of their senior year at Yamaku. Shizune has gone far in her short life, becoming student body president and achieving exemplary grades, but can't shake the feeling that she's been missing something. Letting out a small sigh, she flops onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She wonders why she feels so empty, when there is a good friend sitting next to her. She wonders why, with all the good things she has accomplished, she can't shake this funk in which she finds herself.

Misha's face comes into view, standing overhead. 'Shicchan, what's wrong?'

'Nothing,' responds the girl.

'Shicchan, don't lie! It's mean!' The pink-haired girl pouts like a child.

Shizune can't help but sigh. 'I just...' Her arms pause as she thinks of words. 'I feel... lonely.'

Misha's eyes drop a bit. 'But I'm right here.'

'No, no, that's not what I mean.' She scratches her head and shrugs, aggravated. 'I don't know what I mean, but that's not it.'

Golden eyes regard Shizune for a moment before Misha brightens visibly. 'Oh, you want a boyfriend!' Immediately Shizune flushes scarlet. Misha continues, completely ignoring her friend's blushing face, 'But all the guys in our class are no good! Who do you think would be okay for Shicchan?'

'I don't need a boyfriend!' But she does, and she knows it now. 'Boys complicate things, and I don't need that right before college.'

She can see Misha laugh, but hears nothing. 'Shicchan, you're so smart!' The girl cocks her head to one side. 'But then what is it?'

Shizune is not willing to go down this road again. 'Nevermind, I'll tell you some other time. I'm tired.'

A curt nod. 'Okay! Good night, Shicchan!'

'Good night, Misha.'

She closes the door on a bubbly, pink head moving toward its own room, and sighs. A small hand reaches out to turn off the lights; a pair of glasses are discarded on the bedside table. Sheets rustle, and Shizune tries to calm herself for sleep.

Before much time can pass, she blushes again. Though she would never admit it to anyone else, not even Misha, she does want a boyfriend. She wants someone to spend time with, to accept her for her. She needs that desperately, more desperately than she thought possible. Even an hour ago she would have vehemently denied the possibility of a relationship. But now, the flood gates have been opened. She is lonely.

She thinks back on all of the times in her life she has liked boys. There are not many. She tries to think of the perfect man for her, but has no frame of reference. This makes her depressed, and she closes her eyes, dejected.

There was one boy. Densuke was his name. An elementary school crush, short and sweet. She remembers meeting him in second grade, and fighting. In third grade they were in the same class again, and Shizune pestered him constantly. In fourth grade, she started bullying other children when they were mean to her. One day she found out that Densuke was saying those things, too. She cried that night, and hasn't loved a boy since.

Quietly she muses about the possibility she is not meant to be with anyone. Perhaps she is meant to be lonely, she thinks, that no one will ever love her.

Quickly, though, those thoughts are discarded. She is Shizune Hakamichi, after all. She is smart, funny, and beautiful. She's quite a catch. Someday, someone will come along and make her feel needed. At college, perhaps, she will meet a hard-working, smart young man working towards a law degree. Or a young doctor, fresh out of residency, will take a fancy to her and make her feel warm inside. But not anytime soon, she reminds herself, thinking of the boys in her class. No one here can make her happy. Not like that.

As she drifts off to sleep, a stray thought drifts through her head. She remembers the preschool, and the playground, and the kind young boy who wanted to play with her when no one else would. That would be nice, she thinks sleepily. Shizune just wants someone to spend time with her when she's sad.

She just wants someone to play with her.


End file.
